


Sick Day

by papesdontsellthemselves



Category: Newsies (1992), Newsies - All Media Types, Newsies!: the Musical - Fierstein/Menken
Genre: Cuddling & Snuggling, Fluff, Headaches & Migraines, Hurt/Comfort, Jack Kelly is a Good Bro, M/M, Race is a good boyfriend, Vomiting, pure fucking fluff, spot is a middle school teacher and i love him
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-19
Updated: 2020-03-19
Packaged: 2021-02-28 17:02:14
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,296
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23220661
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/papesdontsellthemselves/pseuds/papesdontsellthemselves
Summary: Spot gets a migraine, Race takes care of him
Relationships: Spot Conlon/Racetrack Higgins
Comments: 9
Kudos: 63





	Sick Day

**Author's Note:**

> just some nice pure fluff and h/c

When he was fifteen years old, Spot had a math teacher named, Mr. Johnny. He never told his classes his last name, insisting that they address him solely by his first and if they were uncomfortable with that level of casualness, they could tack on the “Mr.”. It was a strategy to get the kids to relax, to understand that his classroom was a safe space and he viewed them as his equals, not his inferiors just because they were students and he technically had authority over them. 

Spot, having moved homes every year up until then, and scrabbling for some sense of adult security, positively thrived in his class. Lunch periods were spent cross legged on the desks in Mr. Johnny’s classroom, chip bag in hand as he talked about anything and everything. And Mr. Johnny _listened_. Spot was never the only kid in the classroom during off-hours, but Mr. Johnny had a talent for making every kid feel valued and cared for. 

One day, after a particularly bad night in the group home Spot was in, he’d come to school red-eyed and exhausted and completely unprepared for the fucking algebra 2 test they apparently had that day and oh god, this was Spot’s worst unit and fuck he was doing so well and he didn’t want to disappoint Mr. Johnny and-

Shit, now he was crying. Again.

But Mr. Johnny had noticed and discreetly (thank fuck) taken him out into the hallway to ask what was wrong. And when Spot explained the situation, Mr. Johnny just smiled and said, “It’s okay. We can find a time later this week for you to take the test. What matters to me is that you’re okay and until you’re feeling better, this class doesn’t matter. I’m not here to add stress to your life, Sean.”

And that just made Spot cry harder. But in that moment, he also made a decision: he was going to become a teacher. He was going to do for kids what Mr. Johnny did for him.

Which is why Spot’s currently sitting at his desk during his own lunch period, tossing a stress ball designed to look like a football with a couple of his seventh graders and talking about how badly the Giants played last night. 

“And then when Barkley fumbled on the third down, I just- _ugh!_ It sucked. Anyway, when are we getting our tests back, Mr. Sean?” 

Spot smirks, chucking the stress ball into the tub he’s got by the door, “Soon as I’m finished grading ‘em, William. Have patience.”

“Ugh, why’s it taking so long, though? We took the test last week!”

“Well let’s see,” Spot says, leaning back in his desk chair and kicking up his feet. He frowns a bit when his stomach gives a sudden swoop at the motion, but shrugs it off, “It _was_ a midterm and I have, hmm, five classes with thirty kids in each, so…”

“Yeah, William,” Tyson, one of the other boys loitering around Spot’s classroom, pipes in, “This was a longer test, it’s gonna take him a long time to grade!”

“See? Someone’s sympathetic,” Spot says.

“Damn.” William says, frowning.

“Hey. Language,” Spot scolds, smiling faintly to let William know he’s not actually mad at him. 

William apologizes as the bell rings signalling the end of lunch and Spot winces, head throbbing at the noise. He shakes his head, trying to clear it, but the sudden fog that’s seemed to assault his senses doesn’t want to lift. It gets worse when he opens his eyes to see specks of light dancing around in his vision and with an inward groan, Spot assesses the symptoms for what they are: the early signs of a migraine. 

Well, shit. He’s still got three more classes to teach.

Nonetheless, he shoos the boys out of the classroom and clicks on the projector, that day’s warm up appearing on the screen. Then, he grabs his water bottle and downs the rest of it, hoping ample hydration will heed off the inevitable.

It doesn’t and an hour later finds Spot hastily handing out that day’s practice DBQ earlier than he’d intended before retreating to his desk and slumping down, hoping no one will need help with analyzing the political cartoons in the packet. He doesn’t really remember teaching the lesson, but he must have appeared somewhere near as bad as he feels because the kids hadn’t asked as many questions as usual today. He feels inherently bad for his lack of attentiveness, but more than anything he’s relieved. His head really feels like shit and genuinely, he probably couldn’t explain the effects of disestablishmentarianism on the Church of England right now. 

“Mr. Sean?” Spot lifts his head, unaware that he’d even rested it on his arms, and flinches as the brightness in the room. It makes him nauseous and for a horrific moment, Spot wonders if he’s going to throw up in front of a room full of twelve year olds.

He blinks a few times, trying to focus on who spoke to him. Alejandra, one of the quieter, more mature students in the class, is standing directly in front of him. 

“What’s up?” He says, sounding raspy and distant to his own ears, “Gotta question?”

Alejandra shakes her head, “No. I mean, kinda. But not about the DBQ. I just wanted to know if you’re okay. You had your head down for a long time and when TJ called you, you didn’t answer. You look sick.”

Spot blinks again, trying to process the choppy middle school speech. He opens his mouth to answer, but before he can get a word out, his head throbs, abruptly making its aching presence known again and before he knows it, he’s leaning to the side and throwing up into the little trash can he keeps under his desk. It was his husband, Race’s, idea to put one there and right now, Spot couldn’t be more grateful that he’d come with him to set up his classroom at the beginning of the year.

He hears a couple of the kids in class groan in disgust and a couple more gasp, but Spot finds himself unable to care as he retches again, head pounding in time with his heaves.

“I’ll go get Mr. Kelly,” Alejandra says, sounding a little panicked.

Spot tries to give her a thumbs up, but stops when the movement makes him even more dizzy. God, he hates this. 

An indiscernible amount of time passes before the classroom door opens again and three pairs of footsteps enter. He hears a female voice tell Alejandra to go back to her seat and a moment later, someone’s crouching next to him.

“Hey, man,” Jack Kelly, one of the other teachers in the history department and ironically, Spot’s old foster brother (and probably the person he trusts most besides Race), places what’s probably supposed to be a comforting hand on Spot’s shoulder. The gesture, though, sends a thrill of pine-needle like aches down Spot’s entire arm and he groans, shaking him off, “Okay, that’s okay. What’s wrong? You catch a bug or something?”

“Mm-mm,” Spot manages, “Migraine.” 

“Yikes,” Jack says, lowering his voice tactfully, “Wanna relocate to the nurse’s? I brought Kath here to watch your kids.”

“Mm, your class, though?” The effort it takes to speak grates on Spot’s head and he has to breathe through the urge to vomit again.

“It’s my planning period,” Jack assures him, “C’mon, let’s go getcha somewhere comfy to rest for the time-being.”

“Mkay…”

Jack helps him stand up gently, plucking up the trash can from under him in case he throws up again. Spot keeps his eyes closed, partially to block out the bright lights in the room and partially so he doesn’t have to see his student’s faces right now. Fuck, he’s so embarrassed.

Jack seems to sense him kicking himself internally and gives his elbow a faint squeeze as he helps him down the hallway, “They’re okay. Just worried. You teach a good crowd, I’m sure they just want you to get better.”

Too focused on placing one foot in front of the other, Spot just nods.

Somehow they make it to the nurse’s office and Spot vaguely acknowledges Jack telling him that he called Race to pick him up as he settles onto one of the cots. He must doze off, because soon he’s waking up to a gentle hand running through his hair, scratching at the nape of his neck in a way that somehow manages to feel soothing rather than painful given the richter scale migraine he’s still suffering.

He opens his eyes, relieved to see Race perched on the cot by his head, looking fond and more than a little concerned.

“Hey,” He croaks.

Race’s mouth quirks up a little bit and he raises an eyebrow, “Hey. You’re really not feeling well, huh?”

“That obvious?” Spot asks, pushing himself into a sitting position, then dropping his forehead onto Race’s shoulder when the action proves to be too much.

“You’re not even denying the fact that you’re sick, so yeah, that obvious,” Race takes his hand and helps him up, leaning most of his weight against him, “C’mon, I’m parked just out front.”

It’s blessedly quiet during the car ride home and Race takes care not to jostle Spot too much as he helps him into the house, switching off the lights in the living room as he sits him down on the couch.

“Ya want some sweats?” Race asks quietly as he helps Spot out of his shoes and button down, planting a kiss on his forehead as he slips his tie over his head. Spot’s distantly grateful that he’d decided to put on one of his older undershirts that day. They’re softer than his newer pack, if not a little small. 

“Yeah, please,” Spot says, leaning his head back into the cushions. Spot moans at the marginal relief the cool fabric warrants and Race chuckles, brushing some hair off his forehead.

“Okay, love, I’ll be right back.”

Spot hears Race leave the room and feels a swoop of warmth in his gut. God, he’s so in love it hurts. Four years he’s been married to Race and he’s still moved by their dynamic. They just work. It’s something Spot never envisioned for himself and yet, here he is, with the world’s best, most caring husband. Maybe he’ll get that on a shirt for Race’s birthday: _World’s Bestest, Most Caring Husband Whom I Love._ Or maybe an apron. Race likes fun aprons.

Race returns a moment later with his favorite sweatpants and a glass of water. 

“Here, change into those, then drink that entire glass. Gotta keep hydrated,” Race says, waiting for Spot to slip into the sweatpants before placing a white pill into his hand, “Also, take that. Should help your head.”

“Excedrin?”

“Extra strength.”

Spot nods, popping the pill in his mouth and downing the entire glass of water in a couple gulps. He feels utterly spent by the time he’s finished and he wants nothing more than to nap forever. Race seems to sense this, because he pulls the blanket from the ottoman and drapes it over Spot, pushing him so that he’s lying down.

Spot looks up at him, “Stay?”

Race smiles, looking pleased, “Of course.” 

He nudges Spot over and settles in behind him, draping his arm around his chest and pressing a little kiss to the back of his neck, “Sleep. I’ll be here when you wake up.”

Race is, in fact, there when Spot wakes up feeling a thousand times better and also really overheated. He pushes Race’s arm off of him and kicks the blankets off, hoping to alleviate some of the suffocating warmth that’s enveloped his entire body during his nap. Race is asleep, mouth open a little bit and a small patch of drool trailing down onto his other arm, where he’s got his head cushioned. It’s gross and a little endearing. 

Spot scooches down to the other end of the couch, attempting to get up without waking Race, and pads down the hallway to change into a fresh shirt and use the restroom. When he gets back, Race jerks a little in his sleep, then jolts awake, lifting his head a fraction. Spot winces, feeling bad for having woken him up. Race was always the lighter sleeper between the two of them, waking up at the slightest sounds.

“Hey,” Spot says, sitting back down on the couch.

“Hey- wh- oh gross,” Race scrunches his nose as he notices the drool on his arm and wipes his mouth on his sleeve, “I didn’t drool on you, did I?”

Spot shakes his head, “Nah, you’re good.”

“Good,” Race says, sitting up so he’s mirroring Spot’s position on the couch, legs pulled up to his chest. He looks sleep soft and tired and Spot wants to stare at him forever, “How are you feeling?”

“Much better,” Spot says, “Just needed to sleep it off.”

“Yeah, I figured,” Race says, “S’usually how it goes for you.”

“Hey, naps are the best cure-all.”

“Sure are,” Race yawns, rubbing an eye, “You hungry? I’m hungry. I could go for some thai.”

“Thai sounds good and hey, Race?”

“Yeah?”

“Thanks for lookin’ after me.”

Race smiles and crawls over to him, dropping unceremoniously into his arms, “‘Course. S’what I’m here for.”

Spot holds him, rubbing his thumb soothingly along his collarbone, “Thought we were gonna order thai.”

“We are, but in a minute, I’m comfy.”

Spot laughs, pressing a kiss to Race’s curls, “Yeah, okay. One minute.”

Race hums and Spot shifts into a more comfortable position, content to just lay there with his husband. It’s a pretty damn good life.

**Author's Note:**

> thanks for reading, chiefs


End file.
